Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

by Stella Whitelaw

  North Mill Lane had a rustic charm, totally cut off from anything resembling a supermarket or a library. It did not even have token street lighting. I wondered if the cottages had gas or electricity or whether Dick Mann read the tide timetables by candlelight.

  “So which cottage is it?” James asked.

  “I don’t know. I was only told North Mill Lane.”

  He shot me a look of total disbelief. “You start this side and I’ll take the other side of the lane.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, as if he was my superior officer. We got out of the patrol car and started the trawl.

  It did not take long. Tan Cottage was very small, built of Sussex flint cobbles with a slate roof, but the shed door was open and propped inside there were enough rods to catch the entire fish population of the English Channel. I got a horrible feeling. Surely, no one angler would own so many rods? If so, why the collection? It did not make sense.

  DI James knocked on the front door. It was tiny, probably two rooms up and two down. That is, twice the size of my two bedsits. The Sussex flint cobbles were laid diagonally by a right-handed laborer, the windows like tiny eyes, the roof a slope of mossy slate. I liked it immensely, but out here, miles from anywhere? No one in their right senses would chose to live in such an isolated place.

  Unless you had something to hide.

  It came into my head unbidden. I let the winging thoughts creep in. They sometimes know better than I do. What would Dick Mann have to hide?

  No one was answering the knock and the front door was secure. We wandered round the side of the cottage. Dick Mann was no gardener. It was a wilderness of weeds and overgrown shrubs. The back door was also locked but the wood had warped. It gave way on pressure. It creaked open like in a horror film.

  “Hello?” DI James called out. “Is anyone there?”

  He went into the kitchen and I followed. It was a tiny kitchen but everything was neat. Not exactly IKEA but late forties style. A metal kitchen cabinet. A plain wooden table with a chair tucked under it. On it was a half-drunk mug of tea and a sliced loaf of bread. An old-fashioned gas stove at the wrong eye level. Some wall cupboards of different styles. On the windowsill was a pot of chives. It needed watering.

  “I don’t think there is a Mrs Mann,” I said. “Unless it’s his mother, someone who occasionally visits.”

  “Hello, Mrs Mann?” called Dl James again as he moved through the kitchen and into a front sitting room. No answer. The cottage sounded empty. “Anyone at home? Hello?”

  Again, it was a room lost in time. It had an upright vintage wireless and an old television set in a cabinet, two sunken chairs bracketing a green-tiled fireplace. Rag rugs on the floor. A row of faded Reader’s Digest condensed books on a wall shelf. No flowers, no plants, no cushions. No comforts.

  “No Mrs Mann,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No woman lives here. There’s not a single sign. Except the chives on the windowsill, but even that’s not certain.”

  We made a tour of the empty house. The upstairs rooms only had the bare necessities for sleeping, washing and storing clothes, a bed, a cupboard and a washbasin. There was nothing that was any clue to Dick Mann’s existence. No photos, no letters, no phone numbers, no personal belongings. It was as if he did not exist. Only the rods in the shed were any clue to the man.

  “We could be in the wrong house,” said James finally. “The rods might belong to someone else. I’ll try next door.”

  The woman in the next cottage came to the door surrounded by several small children and barking dogs. She looked harassed, pushing back frizzled hair, trying to prevent toddlers following the dogs out into the garden. I caught one determined youngster by his denim dungarees and hauled him back from the front gate.

  “I’d tie that one down if it didn’t mean the Social would be after me. He’d be off down the pier and fishing with his dad if he had half a chance.”

  “Fishing?” I said weakly.

  “His dad fishes every hour he can get off. Does it to get away from the kids. He can’t stand them.”

  “Arnie?”

  “Yes, Arnie.”

  DI James showed his badge and introduced himself.

  “We’re looking for Dick Mann’s cottage,” he said. “Do you know where he lives? Is it the one next door?”

  “Right next door,” said the woman, hanging on to two wriggling toddlers with both hands. “Dick and my Arnie go fishing together. Arnie Rudge is my husband and the breeder of this unruly brood. Arnie keeps his rods in Dick’s shed. Handy for him. We ain’t got no room for them here, what with the kids and the dogs. And we’ve got hens out the back. I said I’m not having those smelly things in the house. So Dick said Arnie could use his shed.”

  “Very useful,” I said.

  “Do you know anything about Mr Mann?” said James. “Do you know if he has any relations, a brother or a mother perhaps?”

  “I don’t know anything about him. Keeps himself to himself. Nothing much more than a polite good morning or good evening. Sometimes, he gives me a bit of fish if Arnie’s had a bad day. I once said to him, for a laugh like, you could be one of them great train robbers hiding out here in North Mill Lane and no one would ever know.” Her wiry blonde curls bounced with laughter.

  “I bet he thought that was funny.”

  “Oh yes, he thought that was funny, he did.”

  “Do you know when you last saw Mr Mann?” said James, trying to get Arnie’s wife back on track.

  “No idea,” she said with a vigorous shake of her head. “I hardly know the time of day with this lot.” She hauled back the small monster in dungarees again. “This one’s going to be an explorer or the first man on Mars. No one’ll stop him once he gets out there.”

  “Please try and think,” James persisted. “Was it yesterday or the day before?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” she said. “Arnie might know, though they weren’t great mates or anything. Only for the fishing and a pint afterwards. They both like their pint. I’m lucky if I see a vodka and lime at Christmas.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” said James, retreating from various sticky fingers pulling at his trousers. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Nice to have somebody to talk to,” she grinned. “Here, do either of you want some eggs? Cheaper than the shops and fresher.”

  We both left with a dozen eggs packed in cartons. They were fresher. They were so fresh they had bits of straw sticking to them.

  She saw us off, trying unsuccessfully to get the kids to wave. “What do you want him for, anyway?” she called out as an afterthought.

  “Great train robbery,” I waved back.

  “Thought so.”

  I trudged after James. “That’s a woman who has her hands full. All those kids. One a year by the look of it,” I said as we walked away. “I counted five.”

  “I think that vodka at Christmas is her downfall,” said James with a rare glint of humor. “She should stick to orange juice.”

  “And what about Arnie? What should he stick to? It takes two, you know.”

  “Fishing. I’m going back to the station now. Where would you like to be dropped? I’ve got a hunch about Dick Mann and I want to run a few checks on the PNC.”

  “I’ve got a hunch, too,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh no, I’m not telling you my hunch unless you tell me yours.”

  James got into the patrol car and pushed the passenger door open. “This is too juvenile for words. I haven’t time for games.”

  I tore off a page of paper from my notebook and wrote some capital letters on it. “There it is, my hunch in writing. I shall fold it four ways, fasten it with this paperclip and give it to you, showing my complete faith in your integrity not to open it till you have checked your hunch.”

  “Ridiculous. I said no games, please, Jordan.”

  “This isn’t a game. I’m deadly serious.”

  �
�All right.” He took the folded paper and put it in his pocket. “My integrity is at stake. If I succumb to the temptation to read your priceless information, I’ll make you a supper with my cheaper and fresher eggs.”

  “Omelette or scrambled?”

  “I was thinking boiled.”

  He dropped me at my shop before returning to his brand new station and their brand new computers. He was waiting for the pathologist’s report before confirming formal identification. The incident room had already been set up at the station and witness statements taken from the bell-ringers. The exhibits were being collated and forensic evidence sent to the experts. I knew how vital and how busy those first few days of a murder investigation would be. If it was murder.

  “Thanks.”

  “Watch your back, Jordan.” He shot me a brief, sweet smile, which rocked my solidity. For a second, he looked as if he really cared. It was a heady moment that brought a surge of emotion, fracturing the shell that I had carefully built around me. Butterflies were fluttering in waves, luminous and glitzy, carried by my breath in the cold, sharp air.

  “I will.”

  He drove away, accelerating, leaving me to reassemble myself on the pavement. It had been a useful visit to Dick Mann’s cottage. One is not supposed to remove evidence, if you could call it evidence. It was something small and insignificant. James had not thought it of any interest and had passed it over. It was a brooch, the letter “A” surrounded by a circle of gilt leaves. It had been tucked behind a curtain in his bedroom.

  *

  The next day, there were three messages on my answerphone, each offering me a choice of chihuahua puppies. They had seen my advertisement. Two were genuine. I recognized the names of kennels that I had visited earlier. The third was interesting.

  “I got a nice little puppy,” said a man’s voice. “Just what you want. If you’re interested meet me at the Sow’s Head tonight at eight o’clock.”

  No name, no carrying a copy of the Dog Breeder’s Annual. The Sow’s Head, a fair distance away, was not one of my watering places, because the name was unacceptable. How would I know him? How would he know me? Do chihuahua people have a certain look about them? Small, big-eared?

  I’d put my acquisition from Tan Cottage in a plastic specimen bag and added it to the fishing file. There was not much else in it. The fishing investigation was not going well. Perhaps I ought to fit in a surveillance.

  Then a brilliant idea struck me. Ideas are around all the time, waiting to be recognized. I should be under the pier, watching. But how would I get there? I could hardly climb over from the decking or climb up from the wet sand. Then I remembered the work going on for the new decking on the pier, section by section, length by length. I could climb over the barrier and work my way along the girders under the pier till I found a good surveillance spot, somewhere to perch. Sandwiches, mobile phone, water… it would be a doddle.

  Late winter was still surfing through Latching, with minus temperatures, bitter cold and winds that froze my breath. Then suddenly a morning of sun would bathe the promenade with sharp radiance and people hurried down on to the beach, half believing that spring was on its way. It must be coming soon. It had been a long, long winter. Sunsets were glorious, a rosy flush tinging the clouds with the splendour of a painter on a high. Sometimes, I stood and gloried in the sky, unable to leave the changing scene as the sun slid, huge and orangey, into the sea.

  The Sow’s Head. Did I go as Jordan Lacey or did this require a new persona? Persona is the aspect of personality corresponding to the attitude of the moment. Exactly. I needed a new personality of the moment. Bert had brought back the ladybird, straightened out. I had wheels. Her spots weren’t known in that part of the country.

  Even Doris would not have recognized me. It was Stars in your Eyes, Latching version. Jordan Lacey… you are now Dusty Springfield. The beehive hair-do was right, the pink clothes were right and so was the dark eye make-up. Call me Irresponsible or whatever she used to sing. It was amazing. Except for the shoes. I couldn’t walk in her stilettoes.

  The bar was full. The Sow’s Head was obviously a popular place. It was hard to order a drink as the men were two deep at the counter and not moving. But Dusty shed her usual magic and the men parted like biblical water, eyeing the hair, the clothes, the make-up, sniffing the perfume.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said. The barman brought me a large glass of Australian Shiraz without my saying a word. It was a big glass, practically a third of a bottle.

  “How did you know?” I said, passing a five pound note over the bar and not expecting any change.

  He slid a few pathetic coins in my direction. “I always know a Shiraz woman when I see one.”

  There was no answer to that.

  I took my drink over to a corner table where I could watch people coming in, first wiping the top with a tissue. I didn’t know who I was looking for. It could be anyone.

  The large glass of wine lasted a long time. At about twenty past eight, a man came over to my table. He was thin and rangy, narrow-eyed, wearing a faded red T-shirt, jeans and a gray anorak. He needed a shave. There were nick marks on his chin.

  “All on your own?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

  “They all say that,” he smirked.

  “And in this case it’s true.”

  “Mind if I sit down for a minute?” He was carrying a brimming pint of Guinness, dark and frothy. “You look just like Dusty Springfield,” he added.

  “So?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Yes, I do mind.” I was tired of this game already. I wanted to be alone and to appear to be sitting alone. The man with a puppy for sale might appear at any moment. The pub was filling up, the noise level rising, wafts of cigarette smoke clouding the air, irritating my sticky airways. I ought to charge danger money.

  “I’ll go when your friend arrives,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Don’t mind me. It’s nice to talk sometimes. I haven’t seen you before. Have you many friends?”

  This was getting difficult to handle. I did not want to antagonize the man but I didn’t like his face. He was one unpleasant specimen. Not exactly shifty, but his eyes were unfocused, roaming the room. And his breath smelt of stale nicotine.

  “Yes, masses of friends,” I said. “I’m waiting for one now. He’s a fireman. He should be here very soon.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Yes,” I said. It was a spur of the moment thing. “I live in this road, right opposite, number eighty-seven. With my brother-in-law and his family. They are all mad on rugby. You should see the mountains of muddy shirts I wash.”

  It didn’t work. The man took a sip of his Guinness and leaned forward. A pulse was throbbing in his scrawny neck.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “There isn’t a number eighty-seven. Get up quietly now and take my arm. Walk out of the pub as if we are leaving together, like old friends.”

  “You’re joking, mate,” I snapped. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Oh yes you are.”

  He leaned across the table and opened his hand. In the palm lay a nasty-looking knife. “I’m rather good at face-cutting. What would you like? Criss-cross? Or a daisy pattern?”

  Nine

  James. DI James, where art thou? I sent out a silent cry for help. There was no answer, not a tremor in the air. I had enough sense to know that I was going nowhere with this thug. My skin cringed. I did not want to end up in a ditch of nettles. Nor did I want him to practise his face-cutting on me.

  “I need to go to the ladies’ room,” I said. Age-old excuse. Works every time, but not this time.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “I think not. Doubt if the bar staff would approve. They could object, with reason. Public decency and all that.”

  “I’ll tell them that you are sick, female time of the month stuff, need a friend to keep an eye on you.” His
face was twitching, so was the knife. “Get up, Dusty. Come round the table slowly. Smile, baby, smile. You won’t get hurt if you do what I say.”

  The pub was crowded, pulsing with people, yet no one seemed to have noticed the drama that was going on at this table. The fruit machine lights were flashing. I searched the room for someone that I knew but it was not my local. I’d never been here before. No one would even notice my departure. They were too busy discussing soccer, Six Nations rugby, horses. And my wits had deserted me. I was on an island of my own making, feeling sick. Come on, Jordan, think up something. Be positive.

  I broke out into a sweat. The varnished table was marked with overlapping beer rings, wet and white, like a game that has gone wrong, a game without rules. My focus was fuzzy, blurred with fear.

  It was an impulse. I swept my hand over the table, fast as an ace service, and the glass of Guinness shot straight up into his face. He swore and cursed as the brown liquid drenched him. His hand flew up. It gave me enough time. I ran like the wind. Gone with the wind. Through the bar, shouldering people aside and out into the damp street.

  The cold air hit my face like a wet flannel. I ran to my car, fingers already searching for the right keys. This time they were there, in my pocket, and I found the ones I needed. I only had seconds. There were footsteps pounding after me. My fingers were trembling as I unlocked the door, slid in, slammed it shut, found the ignition. There was thumping on the rear of the car. He was alongside, wrenching at the handle, but I had locked the door. I threw the car into gear and the ladybird responded instantly. She was halfway to heaven. There was no one to run over except him. I had a clear getaway ahead along an empty road. Thank you, St Peter, I did not want to precipitate a new arrival.